Flying has always been an escape for me. Ever since I was 12, I’ve always looked forward to the prospect of taking to the air and touching down hours later in an unknown city, urgently awaiting the street to give up its secrets the moment I encountered ground transportation. Such was my expectations during an indirect flight to Seattle earlier in April. Departing one fine morning, I had high hopes of letting the cacophony that is Pike Street wash over me the same way that countless other cities have done. Little did I know that my bucolic adventure would turn into a nightmare worthy of Dante Alighieri.
The initial flight from Raleigh/Durham was easy. I pulled into the parking garage, paid my fee and went through security towards my gate. Within an hour and a half I was in the air, flying high in the troposphere amidst puffy pockets of clouds towards my initial destination: Dallas/Fort Worth. For over two hours I entertained myself, reading shitty puff pieces in the in-flight magazine and gawking at second-rate foot massagers in the Sky Mall catalog- anything to my mind off the rumbling pits in my stomach. If worst came to worst I’d stare through the cabin bay window at the patch work quilt of farmland below- my first clue that we were about to land in the Lone Star State.
Stepping off the plane, my impression of DFW wasn’t so much a picaresque airport as much as a leviathan full of hurried passengers, staff, and airline personnel. I’d been through several large airports in my time- including Hartsfield/Jackson in Atlanta, where most of my past flights originated. But DFW wasn’t like the others. Many of the gates were scattered among the sprawling airport, their bays in ‘C’ shapes that straddled a hall that seemed to stretch into infinity. Thus was I plunged into an environment that even Dante himself would find challenging.
Upon arrival, I checked my flight status. To my surprise- and chagrin- the 4 PM flight was canceled. Hungry and tired, I traveled halfway across the airport- jumping on a tram that was less of a tram than rickety rollercoaster- to catch a flight on standby. And another flight. And another. In all, I would end up waiting four hours and traverse hundreds of feet’s worth of space, to board a flight that essentially didn’t exist. Traversing from concourse to concourse, I thought that my journey would never end.
Eventually it did. Tired of waiting around for a plane that would never come I switched my ticket for a return flight- this time to Charlotte, North Carolina (CLT in IATA jargon). Six of my fellow stranded passengers were not so lucky- they ended up waiting overnight to catch the nearest flight to the Emerald City, a 8 PM red eye flight that would push the limits of their physical and emotional endurance and completely invalidate their reasons for going there in the first place.
Moral of the story kids: Watch how you book your flights. You might find yourself stuck in Airport Hell.
–John Winn